For teenagers of the Northern Californian suburbs, the CalTrain was a life changing discovery. The hour and twenty minute ride to San Francisco was a straight shot from the monotony of school and home to a lively and unfamiliar city. Remnants of our new found freedom (a collection of train tickets, $5 a piece) ended up tacked to my wall, glued to my sketchbook, or became worn thin in the back of my phone case. I silently but smugly displayed these little treasures, proud to have ventured slightly further than my parent’s minivan would take me.
My friends and I would ride the train all the way to its final stop at 4th and King, where we’d hop out into wide, commercial streets lined with trees. The next couple of hours were spent taking pictures and looking in shops as we made our way to some of San Francisco’s smaller neighborhoods. We’d cover miles on foot in search of Coit Tower, which has some of the city’s best panoramic views, or reluctantly hop in an uber to get to Haight-Ashbury (San Francisco’s iconic hippie district) because as far as we knew it had the best thrift stores. We once braved a Muni bus in order to avoid trekking up a hill, but it didn’t go as far as we thought and we ended up walking anyway.
My parents were always nervous to see me go. They avoid San Francisco like the plague. Ten years spent in the Bay Area and they’ve only come with me a handful of times. My mother likes to complain about the homeless population. My art museum-loving dad can’t find anything of interest in the SFMOMA or DeYoung museum. Maybe they’ve seen enough cities in their lifetimes to find anything of interest in San Francisco. To us teenagers, the city felt lived-in and real. Although we remained grateful for the comforts of Silicon Valley, its bubble had become far too familiar.
Now that I have my driver’s license, the journey into San Francisco takes half as long. My sister and I like to jump on the I-280 N with no plans and no deadlines. It’s been our goal to become acquainted with each of San Francisco’s unique districts. We get coffee in the Castro, then wander into a bookstore in the Mission district, maybe end the day walking through SoMa’s picturesque gardens and museums. When we catch concerts in San Francisco they’re usually in historic venues in the Fillmore district. On the days we feel like a bit more of a hike, we park on the outskirts of Golden Gate Park and make our way to Rideout Fountain to eat lunch. The park was built on 1,000 acres of sand dunes, which makes it larger than Central Park. On rainy days we find shelter in a corner cafe or sit in our car and watch the Golden Gate Bridge disappear into the storm. Even encased in fog, San Francisco feels vibrant. Iconic modern Victorian architecture lines the city’s gridded streets. Houses climb the streets vertically, creating layers of urban topography on top of the already hilly peninsula. As we drive around the city, we get excited when we spot street art done by a familiar artist or see a stand of trees that reminds us of our old house back in New Zealand. For my sister and I, it’s small moments like these that keep us coming back.
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